Let Myths Remain Myth
by The Hist
Summary: The Journal entries of one Milliva Lawless, a less-than-innocent and not quite talkative Nord being dragged around by a hyperactive Argonian, whose origins are more of a mystery than her own.


**1st of Last Seed**

**The Wagon to Sovngarde**

The day woke me up as its mighty hand threw me down to the floor of a wooden wagon en route to Gods-knew-where. My bound hands wished for nothing more than to pick me up from the humiliation of falling face-first onto the floor and to rescue me from the jeering of the man across from me, but alas, it could not be.

Darkwater Crossing was a distant memory. The worst of it all was not the two days without proper rest, nor was it the ride to an unknown location. It was the fact that I was certain I and my Dearest would never be together again. We would never reunite for as long as I lived and that alone broke me into pieces.

I was wrong, wasn't I? I mean, here you are. I missed you, my sweet. You have always been such a good listener.

"Ha… ha ha… ha," another man nervously quivered. His own bound arms made their sorry attempt to lift up my fallen body. It was of no use until the first man afforded himself the time to help me sit up like a proper lady.

"Hey," the fair-haired Nord chimed in, "You. I guess that means you're awake." He wore a leather and chain ensemble draped over by a cloth as blue as the great sea. "You were trying to cross the border, right?" Silence was my mistress as well as my response.

"Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there," he rambled on, as if I needed a reminder of what happened in Darkwater Crossing. I would not forget what I suffered there by the hands of those Imperial Legion pigs.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the brown-haired Nord hissed. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy." Dark dirt covered the thief's face just as rags covered his frail body. He grumbled, "If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

The thief's disheveled face turned to mine and he spoke on, "You there— You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the Stormcloak to the left interrupted. Few truer words had been spoken.

"Shut up back there!" shouted the Imperial carriage driver. What an odd job that must have been. I wondered how one applied to be an 'Imperial Legion Carriage Driver'. His command may as well not have been spoken, for it would be beneath the thief to honor it.

"What's with you, huh?" the horse thief asked the man next to me; a blond-haired man who was not only bound, but gagged. That man wore the furs of the upper class above his chain link armor, as well as the heavy boots of a true Nord warrior.

"Watch your tongue," the Stormcloak snapped, "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" It was then that the reality of the situation sunk in; not only for me, but for the thief as well. Everyone on the wagon was headed, in one way or another, to Sovngarde, the land of the honored dead.

The thief's voice trembled, "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the Rebellion… But if they captured _you_… Oh, Gods, where are they taking us!"

"I don't know where we're going," the Stormcloak replied. His voice was more grim than death itself. "But Sovngarde awaits." Our fears were confirmed as he uttered those dark words.

"No, this can't be happening," the thief cried, "This isn't happening!"

The wagon pulled through the large gates of a little town. "Hey," the Stormcloak began softly. "What village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?" the thief shot back.

"A Nord's last thoughts," the Stormcloak replied, "Should be of home." The solemn tone did us well, as little as the man before me meant in the grand scheme of things.

My mind wandered to thoughts of my childhood home in Riften. I was born about 20 years ago, on the 4th of Heartfire, to a man and woman who never wanted to raise a child. At a young age, they shipped me away to the hellhole known as Honorhall Orphanage, run by a woman named Grelod ever since I could remember. What a lovely place to think of as I took my last breaths of Nirn's air.

"Rorikstead," the thief stammered, "I'm-I'm from Rorikstead."

"General Tullius, sir!" exclaimed a far-off Legion swine, "The headsman is waiting!"

Then came a reply from General Tullius, King Swine himself. "Good," he announced. "Let's get this over with.

The thief rattled off five of the Divines' names as he pleaded to the Gods to spare his insignificant little life.

"Look at him," the Stormcloak spat, "General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

"This is Helgen," the Stormcloak reminisced as the wagon rumbled through town, "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny… When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe." The wagon slowed to a stop as the headsman shuffled through the gateway nearby.

"Why are we stopping?" squeaked the thief.

"Why do you think? End of the line," replied the Stormcloak.

As the Imperial carriage driver climbed down from his post, the Stormcloak boldly proclaimed, "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the Gods waiting for us."

We all stood from our rickety seats to the lines before those we stood at the mercy of. The Imperial swine before us stunk like rotten cheese on a rainy afternoon.

"No! Wait!" pleaded the desperate thief, "We're not rebels!" I always believed that it took the biggest of cowards to take up the thieving trade. That man was no different.

The Stormcloak's wise words resurfaced, "Face your death with some courage, thief."

"You've got to tell them!" the thief continued, "We weren't with you! This is all a mistake!" I doubted that the Imperials would believe such words if they came from a Stormcloak. If they did, they would become far too easy to abuse.

"Step toward the block when we call your name," the woman up front commanded, "One at a time."

Our welcome was not as grand a procedure as someone would expect the execution of Ulfric Stormcloak to be. No mighty banner over the gate to signify the victory of the Empire. No big announcement of the rebel leader's coming death. We were given orders and the chill of Skyrim's frost on our backs. We were little more than a nuisance and I _hated_ it.

"Empire loves their damn lists," the Stormcloak grumbled not a second afterward.

A man who held a book and quill called out, "Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm." The bound and gagged man stepped forward.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," the Stormcloak behind me praised.

"Shilveeta of Black Marsh," called the man. An Argonian within the Stormcloaks' ranks? How delightfully odd, I thought with a smile, as the Argonian in the line next to ours shuffled her feet to the vast space before the block.

Name after name was called without incident, until, "Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" the thief cried out. Without a second thought in his mind, he sped off past the woman and her book man.

"Archers!" called the Imperial woman while the thief exclaimed some nonsense about how they would not kill him. The archers behind her simultaneously shot their bows at her command. Their arrows leapt from them like rabbits to pierce the thief's body; to let his corpse slide along the road like butter would on bread.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the woman challenged. None dared take her up on the offer. I won't lie, dear journal, her puffed-out chest left me with my tail between my legs. So to speak.

"Ralof of Riverwood," the man with the book called. The name rang enough bells for me to crack open a smile.

Last, but not least… "Milliva Lawless of Riften," he called. My feet moved toward the block and in doing so, they dragged me against my will. My choices stood between a dishonorable death during a cowardly attempt to flee and a slightly more honorable death by execution. My choice was the closest shave known to man, mer, and beast, with the Imperial headsman as my esteemed barber.

I have to tell you that what I felt in that moment was surreal. My heart buried itself deep into the pits of my stomach. Of all things, I never expected to be killed by an Imperial headsman. I always assumed that I would suffer an accident at work, or that I would have my life swiftly ended by one of our rival businesses.

"Read them their last rites!" commanded the Imperial Captain as a fair lady stepped to the front of us. She wore the yellow-orange robes of a priestess; her presence suggested her as one of Arkay.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius," she began. "Blessings of the Eight Divines upon you—"

"Oh, for the love of Talos, let's get this over with!" shouted a brazen man, willing to allow his death to precede all others. In hindsight, I wish he would have waited a little longer.

He claimed that his ancestors smiled upon him as he bravely threw away what time he had left. The headsman raised his axe high. He allowed it to fall into place between the man's head and shoulders. The sickening slice echoed throughout the small town of Helgen, followed by cries of pleasure from the cowardly townsfolk who watched in glee as the Imperials so _graciously_ gave their victims the inability to fight back.

If I had a list of cowardly ways to kill someone, public execution of a helpless captive would be the first on that list.

"Next, the lizard!" shouted the captain.

My eyes ventured to the Argonian, Shilveeta. Her bare feet stepped toward the block, interrupted only in the slightest by the echo of a roar that bounced through the mountains.

The stone beneath my feet trembled as a small, black shadow of a beast appeared over the far mountains. The captain's foot planted itself firmly upon the Argonian's back, with the headsman only waiting to finish her off. Even his milky, dead eye showed the love he had for his job, how much he wanted to add to the day's body count.

A fierce roar echoed through the town, its source a much closer, much bigger black-scaled beast. The Imperials shouted out various clamors at its arrival, all of them desperate to find out what sort of monster it was.

With the might of its roar alone, it brought fiery rocks down from the stars. Its landing rattled the ground beneath my feet hard. The force shook me to the floor, slamming my head to the stone beneath me…

The world faded to black.


End file.
